


Cherries, Cake Batter, and Curiosity

by overwhelmingly_awesome



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Baking, Cake, Crowley Just Wants to Watch Aziraphale Bake, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Good Omens 30th Anniversary, M/M, Masturbation, Obligatory Lockdown Fic, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overwhelmingly_awesome/pseuds/overwhelmingly_awesome
Summary: Alone in lockdown, Crowley finds himself daydreaming about what it would be like to watch Aziraphale bake.AKA what happens after the phone call.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 135





	Cherries, Cake Batter, and Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> After the Lockdown video, I was legally obligated to write something about Crowley losing his mind over the thought of Aziraphale baking. 
> 
> I wholeheartedly apologize to kitchen counters everywhere.

Crowley threw his phone across the room. 

It landed atop a truly unfortunate patch of grey carpeting a few feet away, with an unsatisfying thud. The phone, of course, knew better than to break, but in a moment of frustration, Crowley had hoped that the handheld chunk of silvery metal would shatter like tempered glass, rocketing little pieces of harmless but infinitely difficult to tidy up glass around the floor. Perhaps this shatter would have been accompanied by a truly pleasing sound, that can only be produced by launching something small and fragile at a high velocity. 

However, it simply fell face up on the ground, the screen still lit up with a slightly red tinge, to prove that Aziraphale had, in fact, hung up. 

Crowley groaned. 

_ Days.  _ That's how long Crowley had been planning his little pitch. How long he'd reworded his proposal to spend the seemingly infinite remainder of the lockdown with good company, and an ungodly amount of wine. It had all flown out the window as he'd heard the angel's voice on the other end of the line, but he'd still managed to get the point across well enough. 

He'd shot the idea up in the air like an ambitious setter in a game of volleyball, only to watch it be spiked down violently in front of his eyes, helpless to watch it hit the floor at his feet. 

_ No. Out of the question.  _

He'd barely pretended to think about it.

Crowley tried his hardest not to take it as a direct offence to his company. The angel had always been a bit of a stickler for rules, feeling as though they gave him structure, or a purpose. Crowley would never begrudge the angel for that; it was how he'd been raised for millennia. But after finally freeing himself from underneath Heaven's thumb, the demon hadn't expected the angel to run directly to embrace the next set of stifling rules, regardless of how sensible they were. 

And to turn him down so abruptly? It stung like a wound, and bore achingly deep inside Crowley's chest, where he assumed his heart was settled. He slouched back against his throne, and let out a deep, nearly cathartic groan.

_ You know, I could hunker down at your place.  _

Not exactly the Grade A temptation he'd been known for.

Were he able to retry, perhaps he'd reframe it as something more beneficial to the angel. He could have brought him something from one of the take out places still open around the city. He could have offered to sample what the angel had been baking, knowing full well that not a single fiber of his being would be able to tell the angel that any of the various bread products he'd made with his own two hands were anything less than incredible. 

_ Baking.  _ Of course. How could Crowley not have seen that one coming? 

_ Slither over and watch you eat cake.  _

_ That  _ was the kicker. Who in their right mind would propose that, and who in their right mind would accept it? Crowley hadn't even intended to say that bit out loud.

Crowley blamed the cake entirely for every aspect of the phone call's horrendous failure. How could he, a demon with very few obvious weaknesses, remain strong after the angel had eagerly shared just how proficient he'd become at creating the very thing that nearly tore Crowley apart at every opportunity?

Of course, it wasn't the cake itself that had Crowley's tongue cease to function properly. It was the angel that would certainly be eating it. 

_ Once I've baked them, I have to eat them all myself.  _

Crowley swung his feet up onto the desk in front of him, and leaned back against the throne in a way that was nearly impossible for someone who planned on keeping their hips and spine firmly attached. 

Aziraphale had taught himself to bake - rather proficiently, Crowley assumed, seeing as the angel wouldn't eat anything that wasn't up to his standards - and was now alone in that surprisingly large bookshop, rereading through his collection while taking little bites from whatever delicacy was settled neatly on a plate beside him. 

Crowley pictured the way that the angel would neatly curl himself over his writing desk, careful to avoid any interactions between the cake and the novel in front of him, making those little pleased sounds that always resulted in either of the two pastimes. 

Crowley imagined the way he'd turn the pages delicately with one hand, while holding a small fork in the other, absentmindedly burying itself in the spongy texture of the cake, before curling inwards slightly to pull a chunk up into the air. 

There would be a few crumbs that would fall from the edge of the utensil, but Aziraphale would be careful to keep them from falling near the paper, before bringing the fork to his lips. 

Crowley imagined - though he tried to fight it for a few moments - the way that the angel's lips would wrap around the silver line of the fork, eyelashes brushing up against soft rounded cheeks, as the angel closed his eyes in a hum of pleasure. He could all but see the way that the angel would swallow the dessert, the soft line of his throat moving slowly as he savoured the bite, only to start over once again. 

He could nearly hear the shuffling of paper, signaling a turned page, and the clink of the fork against a ceramic plate. He could almost hear the chest-deep sound of one of Aziraphale's low moans. 

Crowley shot up out of his chair. Running long fingers through slightly unkempt hair, he took a deep breath and steadied himself. His hands were shaking where they made contact with the desk. 

He was going through withdrawal. 

He'd been unceremoniously torn from the angel, not by the forces of heaven and hell, not by any great physical force, but by some bloody press conference, and a few articles. One day, he'd left the bookshop, fully prepared to return at the next socially acceptable time, only to find himself forbidden from leaving his nearly barren apartment. He had no clue how long this was supposed to last, no idea of how to put a stop to it without alerting a few too many upper and lower managerial glances, and no idea when he'd be able to see the angel again. 

Now, he was having overly dramatic, slow-motion daydreams portraying the way an angel might possibly be consuming a boring slice of cake. 

He shook himself once, and slinked over to the other side of his flat, grabbing his water mister with a wholly unnecessary amount of force. The green bottle crumpled slightly beneath his grip, that sound of the abused plastic the only one present beyond the ever continuing stream of thoughts running through Crowley's mind. 

_ Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, although I had to miracle in the cherries.  _

Crowley didn't know what that was. A cake? A tarte, or something?

He picked up his phone off of the floor. A quick search could prove useful, however after a couple moments simply staring at the screen, he realized with a great certainty that he would never be able to spell such a monstrosity into the search bar. Predictive search could only go so far. 

So, to better understand what sort of thing he was dealing with, he attempted to use the speech to text search function, mimicking the tone in which Aziraphale had spoken of the dessert, which, although someone may think could only go terribly, worked quite well.

_ Black Forest Cake. He couldn't have just said that? Posh bastard.  _

Crowley was now greeted with another image, courtesy of the part of his brain that the demon now began to believe had been invented solely to cause him grief. 

Black forest cake had a layer of cherries, which were usually accompanied by some sort of cherry jam or filling. Aziraphale must have either miracled it up, or created it himself, and he would have needed to test it to make sure that it was of a high enough quality to be included in this gaudy cake of his. 

The angel must have brought whichever tool that had been used in mixing the substance up to his lips, where the angel had licked a great portion of it off of the silver utensil. Crowley pictured the way that the angel's tongue would wrap around the curve of the spoon, the pinkish substance spreading slightly over his full bottom lip-

_ No.  _

Crowley set the mobile harshly onto the nearest flat surface, and walked into his plant room. Grumbling to himself, he began to mist the plants, discussing both their flaws, and his own. 

After a few spritzes, he felt the familiar dampness across his pointer finger, from where the bottle leaked slightly. He set it down on his table, and wiped his hand across the side of his trousers. 

His imagination suddenly granted him another image of the angel. Instead of dirtying a spoon, Aziraphale would use one plump pointer finger to dip into the cherry jam, before plunging it indulgently into his softly parted lips. As his brain filled itself with imaginary glimpses of the angel's pink tongue around the sticky digit, Crowley let out a truly pathetic groan. 

Perhaps, if this was where his mind was headed today, he might as well embrace it. 

He dumped himself gracelessly onto the nearest soft surface, which happened to be the couch. 

He desperately wanted to watch Aziraphale bake one of his blessed cakes. 

The angel was meticulous with nearly everything he did, and Crowley couldn't picture him being any different with baking. Aziraphale would carefully gather all of the ingredients, lay them out across some sort of kitchen counter, before getting to work. Eggs, milk, baking soda (or baking powder, Crowley never knew which was which), and flour. There were probably other things the angel would require, but beyond the cherries that Aziraphale would need to summon himself, the demon didn't have any idea what a person would need to bake a cake. 

Bowls, he supposed. Whisks. Perhaps the angel would be eager enough to purchase some sort of electric mixer, before failing miserably at attempting to start it up, and resigning himself to a fate of hand-mixing. 

Crowley felt his heart level slightly. It was just baking, what could possibly be so enticing about it? It was following a recipe, putting it into an oven, and eating it. It couldn't possibly be that arousing. 

And yet, it  _ was _ . 

Crowley imagined the way the angel would tug away his jacket, and perhaps even his waistcoat, to protect his darling clothes from the potential mess of the whole scenario. The demon could only dream of the way the white Oxford shirt would curve over the angel's soft curves, enhanced by the baking he'd already completed over the last few weeks. The shirt would no doubt be tucked into his infernal trousers, folding just under his malleable hips. 

Crowley dreamed, really truly dreamed, of burying his fingertips under the waist of those trousers, to untuck the soft fabric of his shirt, to free up mere inches of the angel's skin for his greedy hands to access. 

He brought himself back to baking. 

Maybe the angel would miracle up some sort of apron, some white, useless thing, that he'd tie in a bow behind the curve of his back. He'd pull it tightly, to cover as much of his front as possible, letting the apron strings go taut along the dip of his waist. 

Then he'd pull out one of his cookbooks, thumbing through the pages, searching for something he'd spotted earlier. 

_ Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte _ . A needlessly complicated name for something that could very well be complicated to make. Crowley would say that he knew exactly enough about baking for someone who had no need to eat, and no particular allure to try new and fancy desserts. That meant he knew really very little about baking. This had never been a problem before, but as he searched through his mind for something to use as fantasy inspiration, he came up criminally short. 

First, Crowley supposed, Aziraphale would need to mix up a selection of ingredients. Flour, sugar, eggs, various other powders. Cocoa, probably, seeing as the angel would be making something chocolate-y. 

The angel would carefully measure the exact amount recommended by the recipe, gently filling and adjusting different sized measuring cups to their perfect capacity. 

He'd crinkle his brow slightly, as he always did while he focused on something, and he'd let a millimeter of tongue poke through from his soft lips, unconscious of the unbearably adorable act. 

One day, Crowley was certain, he'd kiss Aziraphale. He'd kiss him thoroughly, lightly, quickly, slowly, whatever the angel wanted, but one day, he'd kiss him after making that expression. He'd draw the teasing tongue into his mouth, tug gently on the angel's lips, before finally telling him exactly how weak in the knees he made him feel each time he made that face. 

But for now, in the palace of his imagination, he simply watched the angel continue to work.

Dumping the measuring cups would always cause a bit of a mess, a flurry of snow-like flour across the countertop, across eager hands. The powder would cling to nearly anything, and Aziraphale would be no exception. With a small wipe to his brow, he'd displace a sweep of flour nearly touching his silver blonde hair. Each little itch or brush of a fingertip would mark the angel's skin, along the bridge of a nose, the curve of a cheek. 

The demon momentarily cursed the way Aziraphale dressed, as the cream colours would make it difficult to picture the way a firm flour handprint could grace a hip, a thigh, the swell of a perfectly crafted arse. 

Crowley could paint Aziraphale from head to toe in powder white grips; clinging, possessive hands across every inch of the angel, if he'd let him. 

Crowley would press the angel back against the countertop, letting his hands wander from the curve of a shoulder, down the soft give of his chest and waist, over a sinfully perfect hip. He'd lodge himself between the angel's own indescribable thighs, pulling them around him with hands that would leave every trace of the action visible against clinging fabric. 

Crowley caved, and began to palm himself absentmindedly through his trousers. 

Perhaps the angel wouldn't waste precious baking materials that way, but it was all fair game inside Crowley's imagination. 

If perhaps, Aziraphale was able to continue forward in his attempt to successfully bake a cake, the next step would be to thoroughly mix the ingredients.

Crowley's mind was suddenly filled to the brim with the image of Aziraphale clutching the bowl to his side as he methodically stirred the contents. The arm holding the bowl would tense up, the line of the angel's cushioned muscles exposed beneath the rolled up sleeve. The hand beating at the mixture would be similarly engaged, his hand gripping the - spoon? whisk? fork? - tightly. 

The angel was  _ strong.  _ Crowley had discovered that interesting aspect of his companion years prior, and had successfully been harbouring the fantasy that one day, the angel would use it on him. 

The demon wasn't picky. Whatever Aziraphale wanted, he'd eagerly comply. Perhaps the angel would hoist him up while they kissed, allowing Crowley to wrap his spindly legs around soft hips. Maybe the angel would pin him down on his bed as they made love.  _ Their bed,  _ Crowley's mind unhelpfully suggested, leaving a lingering aftertaste of longing in his mouth. 

If Aziraphale wanted to hold onto Crowley as tightly as he would hold onto the metal bowl, pulling him down ruthlessly atop an angelic cock, Crowley would gratefully and energetically allow himself to be used in such a way. 

Crowley let out a groan as he pressed the heel of his hand down harder against the erection straining against his trousers. He was hard enough to cut glass, and as he let his fingers brush along the outline of his cock through his jeans, he itched to search for some sort of release. Deciding to indulge himself completely, he fiddled with the fastenings on his jeans, freeing himself from the confines of his pants. 

If the angel wanted to push him into the mattress and have his way with the demon? Crowley would be incapable of refusing. Frankly, he would enjoy being tossed across the room haphazardly, only to land in a jumbled up pile of limbs like an abandoned marionette, if it pleased Aziraphale. 

But that didn't have an awful lot to do with baking. 

Wrapping one miraculously slick hand around himself, the demon let out a low whine, and continued his daydream.

Once the dry ingredients were mixed, along with eggs, milk, other various liquids that Crowley typically associated with baking (water perhaps? Vanilla? Chocolate syrup?), the angel would need to set the mixture into some sort of container that he could set into the oven.

Crowley struggled to remember the dessert he'd started daydreaming about. A person had to have consistency in one's pornographic baking fantasies, lest things get out of hand. 

_ That one with the cherries _ . It was just a simple cake, so the angel would need a circular cake pan. He'd slowly and carefully pour the contents of the mixing bowl into the pan, stir it slightly to settle everything, before setting the mixing bowl back down onto the counter. 

The angel wouldn't be able to gather every last drop of cake batter, as the spoon scrapes would leave chocolatey remnants in lines across the silver bowl. Aziraphale would never let something like that go to waste, instead choosing to sweep another finger along the metal surface, before bringing the mixture up to test it. 

Crowley gripped himself tighter, and slowly began to slide the channel of his palm in smooth, careful motions. He was well-practiced in this particular act, knowing exactly what motions and techniques he liked best, along with their results. 

At this particular moment, he wanted to draw it out as long as possible, using firm but slow movements along himself, before running his palm gently over the tip. 

" _ Ah- angel, _ " he breathed, letting his eyes flutter closed once more. 

He pictured the way that the angel could clean off two perfectly shaped fingers, before pulling them out of his mouth with an obscene pop. 

If Crowley were there, in this kitchen fantasy of his,  _ he'd  _ be the one to dip his fingers ever so slightly into the mixture, before bringing them up to soft, slightly parted lips. Gently nudging the angel's mouth open wider, he'd relish in the soft feel of the angel's tongue against his fingertips. Until the sugary substance was completely dissolved into a warm, inviting mouth, Aziraphale would suck ever so gently against two eager digits, letting out one of his earth-shattering little moans, before pulling away. 

Crowley knew how much the angel enjoyed eating - enjoyed the feel of it, the practice of it, along with the taste - but in this moment, the demon wondered which of them really had the oral fixation. 

Perhaps Crowley would sample some of it himself, letting the mixture dip into the corner of his mouth, where Aziraphale would have to search for it, to clean him up. The imaginary tongue that had once graced demonic fingertips would now flick gently against Crowley's skin, before being coaxed into a heated kiss, where the demon could chase after the taste of the cake batter until neither of them could stand properly. 

Crowley's hips thrust up into his hand, and he let out a moan that barely attempted to disguise itself from a cry of the angel's name. Drawing it out seemed to prove difficult, and despite his best efforts, he tossed that particular plan out the window. After all, if he found himself wanting to continue after he came, he could simply will himself hard again, brushing past oversensitivity until he was satisfied. Satan knew how long he could drag out this particular fantasy for. 

Aziraphale would then have to put the cake in the oven. Ethereal beings didn't have to fret over preheating the oven like humans did, as the oven always appeared to be the perfect temperature for whichever project would be baking within it, as soon as the angel opened the door.

Tucking the pan inside the oven - that Crowley could not remember the angel owning, despite several attempts to search through the bookshop in his mind - Aziraphale would smile up blindingly at his companion. 

The demon would be physically incapable of not returning the smile. 

From that point onwards, the pair would simply need to wait for the cake to bake. 

Crowley could think of a hundred ways they could spend their time, but one particular idea stood out in his mind. 

He'd watch as Aziraphale would recline against the counter, rubbing soft, flour covered hands over his white apron. The angel would be a bit of a mess, dusted in baking ingredients, but he'd be so  _ content.  _ Crowley could see it so clearly, the satisfied crinkle in his eyes, paired with a small smile that turned up the perfect corners of lips that still tasted a little like chocolate. 

Crowley would slide in front of him, bracketing the angel in between his hands against the counter, before gently stealing a handful of kisses. His lips travelling along the angel's jaw, he'd wrap his arms around his soft middle, before undoing the apron strings with clever fingers. 

He'd carefully pull the apron over the Aziraphale's head, his fingers brushing against soft curls, before dropping the fabric behind him. 

They'd stay like that for ages, wrapped up in each other, exploring sugary mouths and soft necks, until each breath came out as a heavy pant between desperate kisses. 

Crowley curled his hand over the head of his cock, moaning, as he imagined the way he'd grind up against Aziraphale's hips, pushing him further into the countertop. He'd stroke the angel to hardness through his trousers before tugging on the waistband in question.

He could imagine the way the angel would gasp for him, nodding frantically as Crowley turned Aziraphale away from him, bending him at the waist over the counter, where they'd spent their morning (afternoon, evening, Crowley hadn't thought that far). The demon would free them both from their trousers, before finally getting his hands onto Aziraphale's perfect arse. 

He'd prepare the angel, however he liked best, before finally entering him with a slow thrust. 

What sound would Aziraphale make when Crowley finally fucked him? Would it be similar to the satisfied moan the angel made upon tasting something delicious, or something lower, more desperate? Would the angel be stripped of his ability to speak, as Crowley so often was in his presence, only able to moan, cry out, or gasp out broken syllables that were nearly, but not quite words? Or would he continue to speak, in some hoarse, steady whisper, to encourage the demon to go  _ harder, faster, please, fuck- Crowley! _

Crowley would be helpless but to obey Aziraphale's every wish, gripping onto the angel's love handles as he thrust into the angel. He'd angle himself according to the way his partner would react, repeating every motion that would have Aziraphale crying out in pleasure. 

Crowley turned over with a grunt, bracing one arm over the arm of the couch, as he fucked his hand roughly beneath him. Each stroke sent lightning strikes of pleasure throughout his body, each motion punctuated by a  _ please, angel,  _ or the ever eloquent  _ ah- fuck. _

_ Satan,  _ how Crowley wanted every inch of this daydream. He wanted to feel the angel's warmth beneath him, under his chest, and under his palms. He wanted to bend himself over the angel's back, kissing the exposed line of Aziraphale's pale shoulder, while whispering filthy encouragements in his ear. Aziraphale would feel  _ incredible _ , from his divine arse, to the curves of his hips that Crowley would dig into with clinging but careful hands, pulling the angel back onto his cock. He would feel the backs of the angel's thighs against his own, watching as they shook with each thrust.

The cake drifted away from every inch of the demon's consciousness, his brain instead running on an endless loop of  _ Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale.  _

Suddenly, his imagination wasn't nearly enough. 

The angel had rejected him, he'd pushed the demon away,  _ again,  _ and here he was, fucking his fist like his life depended on it, fantasizing about  _ baking, of all the fucking things.  _

Crowley moaned, unrestrained, closing his eyes tight enough to see stars behind his eyelids. He felt the tightening of his muscles, the coil of heat gathering in his stomach. He was so  _ close _ . 

He pushed the rest of his fantasies away, focusing only on the small voice that had called him nearly an hour ago. 

_ I'll see you when this is over?  _

Crowley cried out, collapsing under himself as he came across his fist, painting his stomach and jumper.

He opened his eyes a few moments later, after the feeling of Aziraphale's imaginary touch had floated away from the demon's body completely. The demon was left cool, damp, and slightly mortified at his own actions. 

He waved his hand to dispose of the mess, before flipping over onto his back. 

He couldn't finish the daydream he'd started, the chocolate cake in his mind left in the oven, undecorated and uneaten. It could burn, for all Crowley cared. 

Aziraphale hadn't agreed to let the demon join him in isolation at the bookshop. Crowley hadn't driven to the bookshop to watch him bake. He wouldn't be able to watch the angel eat a bite of anything, let alone cake, until the end of this bloody lockdown, and who knew when that would be? 

Instead of relishing in the afterglow, Crowley just felt... drained. And dirty. 

He was alone in his flat, away from the only being in the world that mattered to him, and Aziraphale had been off baking and reading and enjoying his life, unaffected by the loss of the demon. 

The angel had called _him,_ however. He'd reached out to Crowley, even if it had just been to dangle a deliriously fascinating tidbit of information before letting the demon collapse in on himself. 

He sighed. 

_ I'm setting the alarm clock for July.  _

Perhaps that was really the only solution. He'd have to miracle the plants to keep them healthy, then make his way to bed, but even standing up off of the couch felt like moving a mountain. He simply closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. 

It was only a few months. He could handle that. 

Suddenly, the silence of his misery was interrupted by the sound of a careful knocking against his front door. 

+×+×+×+

Crowley let his leg hitch up over a soft thigh, before finally collapsing against the angel's front. 

He sighed contentedly, sore in all the right places, and worn thin after what felt like - and could very well have been - days of lovemaking. 

Aziraphale pulled him closer against his chest, his hand drifting along charmingly disheveled strands of copper red hair, letting his hand drift over the curve of the demon's jaw. 

"You're so lovely, my dear," he breathed, and Crowley could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, along with the beating of his heart. Each touch he'd been granted of the angel's perfect corporation was as perfect as he'd dreamed it would be, and now they were finally together, in the early hours of the morning, wrapped up in eachother like- 

_Like_ _lovers,_ Crowley realized. That's what they were, after all. 

After Aziraphale had knocked on the door of the demon's flat and invited himself in, tense words and fears pouring out of his mouth like a faucet, until Crowley had finally asked him why he'd come. 

_ Because I love you, Crowley. And I miss you. And I've been such a fool.  _

Crowley had kissed him then, like he'd dreamed of, pressing him up against the door and grabbing at him like a horny teenager, until they'd both nearly collapsed on the floor in each other's arms. 

Despite their eagerness, they'd both pulled apart long enough to speak their minds, to confess how desperately they each wanted to spend their time together. 

Crowley hadn't cried, after all, demons don't do anything of the sort, but he'd clung to the angel like a lifeline, afraid that the tiniest of movements would send him running back to his bookshop,  _ without him.  _

Now, Aziraphale was in Crowley's bed, and they'd agreed to return to the bookshop in the morning. 

The demon let out another shuddering breath, and curled up in his angel's arms. 

"What are you thinking about?" Aziraphale breathed, letting his hand trace down Crowley's arm. 

"You," he sighed. "Us. Everything." Crowley felt an inescapable warmth blooming in his chest. It was met with an idea. He looked up to greet sky blue eyes. "What would you say to us baking something together, when we get back to the bookshop?"

Aziraphale smiled. 

"I think that sounds like a lovely idea." 

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to leave it at the door knock but I need cuddles like I need fresh air, and I haven't left my house in a month so... cuddles.
> 
> Thanks for reading my self indulgent food porn! 
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr at writing-mostly-probably!


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